


You That I Defend

by mayamaia



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:19:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2641289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayamaia/pseuds/mayamaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One version of how Illya was sent to UNCLE, and how he took the posting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You That I Defend

**Author's Note:**

> First published in 2012 in Kuryakin File #31
> 
> The first print run of KF#31 cut off the final lines of this story. They are restored here.

_1956_

Major Vadim Leonovich Chuikov watched as the young lieutenant packed a week's worth of clothing into a suitcase. That and a shaving kit seemed to be all he would be bringing with him to the West. It seemed spartan for a man moving to a new life, even in the Soviet Republic, except the small man's apartment was nearly bare already.

 _A good product of the Komsomol,_ the Major thought, and with a glance at the lieutenant's hair added, _a golden boy._ The contrast between the overly long blonde hair and the apartment almost made him smile. He thought of Comrade Khrushchev's speech, leaked only days before, and wondered if his young friend had been chosen for this mission as a punishment for showing too much "personality" or as some imagined reward for showing none. Perhaps it was both.

Slowly folding his last shirt, Illya Kuryakin finished his packing and closed his suitcase. Looking lost, he raised his eyes to his companion, took and held a breath.

"Vadim," he said in a very small voice, "after this... do you think I will be allowed to come home?"

The major considered his answer long enough that the young man's concern increased. "I think," he began, then stopped short. Finally he continued, "No man who travels can ever go home."

Illya looked stricken at the statement. With shoulders bowed, he took up his suitcase and left the apartment, leaving the door ajar.

Major Chuikov watched him exit, murmuring lines from an old folktale to himself:

  
_Vasily the Unlucky shall be his name_  
 _And great indeed shall be his fame_  
 _He'll have Marko's daughter and all of his wealth_  
 _Before Marko the Rich is dead himself_

* * *

Illya Kuryakin was in the air. After a short stop in Berlin for politics and paperwork, he had boarded another plane and would shortly be in London. There he was to stay until his new employers were ready to send him on for further training.

There was a stewardess on the airplane. She kept coming by and asking Illya if he wanted things. Every time, he politely refused and hoped she would tire of trying. He had too much on his mind to welcome the interaction.

He felt like he was being watched. It was a familiar feeling, but it had reached a new high as he made his way through queues and red tape in Berlin. Both sides, he was sure, were anxious that nothing go wrong before their human package could reach his destination. Illya had counted three bystanders that carefully didn't see him, and wondered how many more there might have been.

Out the window floated two great landscapes of cloud, separated by blue air above the so-called North Sea. As he let his mind drift, he could see towers and battlements of fantastic castles, glistening white. Between them he could imagine armies and navies arrayed for silent siege and conquest.

A single, small, solitary cloud drifted between them. 

* * *

"The Soviet needs one thing alone from you, Comrade Kuryakin. You are to be a shining example to this U.N.C.L.E. and not embarrass us. In every way, they must find you a competent and obedient agent, so that it is obvious that the Soviet upholds its duties admirably. The Americans have dozens of men in this supposedly worldwide organization, but in the last five years they have requested of us only one token agent. It is an insult that so little should be asked of our great and bountiful country.

"Remember our Mother Russia and what she needs of you, but quietly. You are to be incorruptible. If the capitalists should ever wish to suggest that you are disloyal, they should be completely embarrassed by your pristine record."

Lieutenant Kuryakin had accepted his orders with a calm he did not actually feel, from uniformed men he did not know, in an anonymous square room stripped of ornament deep in a repurposed palace in Moscow. The faces before him held determination without passion, and command without recognition.

It made sense. They needed nothing human from him. All they needed of him was silent attention to duty. 

* * *

A voice speaking English interrupted the Russian's reverie. Two aisles down, a man with dark hair had caught and held the attention of the stewardess.

"...and you'll be spending the whole weekend alone in a strange city? Now, my lovely, that just won't do." The man had reached up from his seat to gently press an errant hair back behind her ear.

"It's very sweet of you to be concerned, but there's not much I can do about it." She was smiling at the man and laughing in that strange high-pitched manner women used to seem more girlish than they really were.

"Well, now, I can help you with that. Let me take you out tomorrow afternoon. There's a very nice little cafe in Notting Hill where we can get a cozy corner all to ourselves."

Illya scowled and turned back to his window. The American was, typically, ignorant of the rest of the passengers, pretending he was master of all he surveyed. No thought that others on the flight might be forced to hear all about his intentions for the young lady. Or perhaps the arrogant man was merely an exhibitionist.

By the time the plane landed, the dark haired man had secured a companion for the following evening. Illya waited impatiently to exit the plane as the man wasted time kissing the stewardess's hand and she gave that childish laugh again. Then later, after getting momentarily disoriented trying to follow the English signage, the Russian found himself waiting behind the amorous American again, who was flirting with the girl at the customs desk while she examined the man's passport with exaggerated care.

When Illya arrived at his destination in a cab and noticed the American again, this time picking up a lipstick for a young lady with a floral bonnet, he stiffened reflexively, then relaxed and retrieved his suitcase. Kuryakin had known he was being shadowed, but at least he now knew his opponent. The man might not even be an opponent; the GRU had an interest in their lieutenant's safe arrival in the arms of the U.N.C.L.E. He had seen the Englishman Burgess at a cafe in Moscow once. He had been recruited out of Cambridge around the time Illya was born. Russia certainly had continued the practice, and there was no reason this overcompensating capitalist shouldn't be a double agent. Caution dictated care, however, so he ducked into a storefront a few doors down.

When Kuryakin emerged five minutes later, there was no sign of the American, so he went to the address he had been given and followed his instructions to find the second, secret entrance. And promptly found himself facing the same dark haired man, chatting amiably with a secretary. The man looked up and smiled.

"I thought you were following me from the plane, but Nadine here tells me that you have business of your own here at headquarters, Mister...?"

"Tell me, do you feel you have some need to deny your name, Mr. Solo? I thought at first you were only playing this part for the women around you, but now you try to draw me in too. Excuse me, miss, I was told to report to this address for a Mr. Johnson." He handed the secretary his identification, which she scanned and returned.

The dark haired man was frozen with his hand out, his mouth still holding a smile but a small wrinkle between his brows as the secretary, Nadine, answered Kuryakin, "Third floor, end of the hall. You'll need to wear this badge." She handed him a small yellow triangle with a clip. Illya thanked her and entered the hallway to find the elevator. The American caught himself and scurried to catch up.

"Oh, now, that was a little rude, I was just trying to be friendly with you. And I still don't know your name, or why you seem to know mine."

"The woman at the passport counter."

"Oh. Right! Yes, it makes a good conversation starter with the customs officials, because Napoleon is a bit too ridiculous to be fake, you see. The men tend to make jokes, but the women always pretend to make sure my passport is real while they take the chance to chat. Now by your accent, you're coming out of the Eastern block, is that right?"

Kuryakin just turned back to give Solo an expressionless look, then continued down the corridor asking, "Are you going to follow me all the way to this Johnson's office?"

"I have business on the third floor myself," Solo said, and pressed the button for the elevator. Illya sighed and tried to ignore the American's chatter. He didn't even notice that the American was still following him when he reached a door labeled "Human Resources" at the end of the third floor hall.

Solo swept forward to open the door and entered ahead of Kuryakin. "One Soviet recruit, name of Illya Kuryakin, delivered safe and sound, sir." He grinned at Illya's narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

"Oh, good, welcome to U.N.C.L.E., Mr. Kuryakin. Thank you, Solo, that will be all." The American swept out in an air of smugness so thick that Illya thought he might be able to smell it if it were any stronger. 

* * *

Kuryakin received new papers of identification, read and signed forms and confirmed he was ready and willing to become a dedicated part of the U.N.C.L.E. five times over. By the time he was finished with his paperwork two hours later, his head, neck, back, and hand ached.

He wished there had been more paperwork.

Kuryakin was released with a key for a sleeping room and a map of the parts of the building to which he had been given access. It amounted to the dormitories, a commissary and a lounge with five chairs and a small bookshelf with books that had spines covered in the Western alphabet. They weren't all in English, but none of them were familiar. 

* * *

London at night was even more alien than it had been by day. The city wasted an immense amount of fuel on public lighting and even more privately, as if to make up for the safe darkness of the war years. Illya tried to imagine how the city would look if moonlight were its only illumination.

"Night time makes of every city a fairytale landscape, don't you think, Mr. Kuryakin?" Illya whirled around to glare at Solo leaning on the doorway of the darkened lounge.

"What are you doing here? I am sure you are not working the night shift in this metal monstrosity." Kuryakin wore the face of a man just confronted with a subtle stench.

"Oh no, I don't even really work here. I'm on loan, as it were, filling in for an older agent out on medical leave. I'm actually staying downstairs for the night, just as you are."

"And is that the truth, or just another of your little games with the Russian recruit?"

"Oh come on now, Mr. Kuryakin. I couldn’t let you know who I was without also alerting anyone else who might have been watching. You can't pretend it wasn't effective and maybe just a little bit fun."

"You made me wait for you three times while you distracted yourself with eager females, arrogant American."

"Actually, I was born Canadian."

"And I Ukrainian. But my passport is Russian and yours, American."

"Touché. But I'd hate to think my adopted country defines everything about me. Why should yours?"

Illya shrugged and smiled. His voice softened almost imperceptibly, "I did not adopt my country, she adopted me." Kuryakin's voice grew cold again as he said, "She defined everything about me that should matter to you."

"Ah, but what matters to me right now is getting my new coworker to know and like me."

"My orders do not require me to like you."

Solo scowled. "Rather cold to rely simply on your orders as a social lubricant."

"They are the reason I am here. They are the only reason I am working with you, a product of the enemy even if you never prove to be the enemy yourself. My association with you is part of my professional life." _An indelible part,_ Kuryakin thought, _and I with no say in the matter._

"You are following orders and you are  only following orders, and you will only follow orders. Is that right?"

"Yes." The chin jutted, almost imperceptibly.

"No, Mr. Kuryakin." Solo shook his head. "No. You are not working for U.N.C.L.E. for the sake of your Soviet masters, nor for your admittedly beautiful mother country. You are doing this for everyone and everything on this spinning planet that you've probably studied as a mathematical object. You are in this job for the love of strangers. You are here for me."

The face which, until now, had been lightly dancing from one expression to another was now still, focused and serious. It held the Russian's blue gaze without effort, though Illya grew desperate to tear his eyes away. "Your duty, Mr. Kuryakin, is to protect me, the good man you do not know, and by extension everything that I, too, protect and care for. We are not the heroes of the enemy. We are heroes of the unknown."

Solo's voice softened toward the end, and he turned to the window where the lights of London shone through his reflection. His gaze finally released, Kuryakin lowered his head and shifted his feet. "I do not think I would be able to trust you with my country's safety. I know my countrymen would not."

"Nevertheless. My job is to die for your family if necessary. I will do it without qualm. And I would allow you the chance to do the same for me."

There was no way to ignore or resist the words, full as they were of idealistic purpose. They were as seductive as anything the man had said or done when he spoke to the women through the day. _Never forget what your country needs of you,_ Illya had been told, _Never underestimate the wiles of a country of salesmen._ Kuryakin had been told to be a man above corruption. He wondered how the corruption could have already set in.

Kuryakin sunk to the floor and settled on his heels. When he spoke, his voice was very low. "I can never go home again."

To his credit, Solo neither misinterpreted the statement, nor tried to challenge it, but echoed the last bitter statement with which Illya had started his exile. "No man who walks the world can ever go home again. He grows beyond the confines of the shell he once knew. There is neither any way to enter it again, nor any purpose in the attempt." 

* * *

Illya was in the air again. This time, however, his destination was secret. He probably should be paying attention to see if he could determine its location anyway.

But his thoughts strayed to the annoyingly affable American agent. It was far too easy to listen to the man. He was far too idealistic and naive. Someday Solo would smilingly say the wrong thing to a hard hearted man and never say another word.

But he was the perfect poster child for a unified world. It seemed like a wonderful way to live, if one was in a century that hadn't seen that world ripped apart twice already.

Illya stared down at floating white islands of cloud and built in them countries with no need for castles. 

* * *

"Solo, do you have a minute?" The London head was doing an excellent job of not appearing to hurry after the junior agent.

"Sure, sir, just finished my paperwork here, all I have left is to charm the travel agent into upgrading my ticket to New York."

"I understand you had a chance to talk with the Soviet pup. He's to be attached to London shortly, so I'd appreciate any assessment you can give me as to his character."

The young agent nodded slowly, dark eyes shrewdly assessing his superior prior to his answer. "He isn't going to be ready for field work. He's intelligent enough and I'm sure survival school has trained him in most of the rest by now, but he hasn't bought in."

"You mean he's serving two masters." The Englishman almost appeared to scowl briefly.

"No, sir. I don't believe he's bought in with them either, though they may think he has. He mentioned his orders with as little relish as everything else."

"Then please reveal what you do mean, Mr. Solo."

"He won't be a danger to himself in the field until he has a good reason to be."

The London head nodded very slowly. Solo wondered if it was to disguise the man taking a moment to parse the awkward statement. "Well then. I'll take your opinion into account. If necessary, we can give him a quiet longterm assignment keeping an eye on a laboratory somewhere. I'm sure we can give him the time necessary to 'buy in' as you put it."

"Yes sir."

The Englishman dismissed the American, and prepared himself a pipe. He could use someone at Cambridge for a few years, with all the excitement coming out of their Cavendish laboratory. It was a beautiful old campus, too. An easy place to love. 

* * *

_1964_

Illya watched Napoleon leave the room, dancing lightheartedly as ever through the preparations to stop a missile and prevent a war. They were working together, each in his own country so that no one would be alarmed. But the American was the one who would save Mother Russia from starvation and worse. Despite the urgency of Illya's own return to Russia, he stood and watched the door for a moment to honor the man who he could no longer see on the other side.

_My job is to die for your family. I, too, will do so without hesitation._ He took a breath and added, _my friend._


End file.
